WRENS. 86 



everywhere to others. !N^o one more fully appreciates 

 this than the naturalist. 



One person can gather quantities of arbutus in woods 

 where others afRrni that no arbutus grows. 



Thoreau could, in any field, find his Indian arrow. 

 Langille has only to cross a vacant lot in the city, even 

 in winter, to see a shore lark, and very likely to find its 

 nest half covered with snow. David F. Day finds the 

 pinguicula on almost inaccessible rocks that look verdure- 

 less to others. My friend, J. F. Cowell, has only to 

 step upon the grass to find an interesting adventitious 

 plant never seen in the locality by others. This wren 

 is my Indian arrow — my pinguicula, and its voice often 

 adds a charm to my rambles in the heavier woods. I 

 remember one wild romantic glen, near Portage Falls. 

 A cool stream runs through it, and tall hemlocks and 

 pines grow thick along its sides, entwining their boughs 

 with those of the chesnuts and beeches. The arbutus 

 and Mitchella carpet, the steep banks whose summits are 

 crowned with the more shoAvy, though not less fragrant 

 azalia. Here, too, grows in great abundance the beautiful 

 little fiowery wintergreen, with its roseate hues and 

 curiously shaped blossoms. The place always seems such 

 a fitting retreat for my favorite little musical hermit, 

 that I never visit it without feeling almost certain that 

 I shall hear him there. Last summer as I occupied a 

 favorite seat on a mossy log well up the glen, talking 

 with a companion about the bird, and expressing the 

 wish that we might hear him, sure enough, almost as by 

 magic, the clear, sweet and never-to-be-mistaken notes 



